Numb
by Ferret2
Summary: Dear Father, his hand wrote, then stopped. He stared at it, eyes widening slightly, then at his hand, which remained still, as if waiting for him to finish. He looked around him, eyes wide with sudden fear of the chance of being caught doing something inc


**Numb** The single flame from the candle flickered against his breath, causing the firelight to dance along his plain white walls. His fireplace remained untouched. In front of him was a parchment, smooth and empty. And in his hand was a quill, inked and ready. Tentatively, he positioned his hand, the point of the quill hovering dangerously over the waiting parchment. 

  


Then suddenly the floors in the hallway creaked, and instantly he withdrew his hand. He listened, with trained ears, til the creaking died away, and the distinct sound of his parents' bedroom door shut with a slight click. Releasing the breath he had been holding, he placed his hand back, fingers shaking in the slightest of ways. Taking a deep breath, he forced the quill down. As if possessed, his hand began to move, and that shaky, child-like writing of his appeared. 

  


_Dear Father_, his hand wrote, then stopped. He stared at it, eyes widening slightly, then at his hand, which remained still, as if waiting for him to finish. He looked around him, eyes wide with sudden fear of the chance of being caught doing something incredibly wrong. He knew full well he was alone, but still his heart thumped faster, that slight ringing tone in his ears growing steadily louder and most distinct. Slowly and cautiously he turned back in his seat, the waiting parchment immediately meeting his eyes. Taking a deep breath, he continued. _Dear Father,  
I know I'm not what you wanted me to be. What you expected me to be. You wanted someone strong, someone smart. You wanted this sophisticated aristocrat with broad shoulders and a dashing smile. You wanted someone you could show off to your friends. Someone who'd be the envy of every father.   
  
But instead, you got me. I am not strong, nor am I all that smart. I struggle with Arithmancy, and tire after every Quidditch practice. I am not Number One at anything. I cringe every time you discipline the House Elves, and cry when they do. I get lonely when you and mother leave town for business. I like cloudy days, and wince every time I hear a thunder clap. I'm tall, I'm lanky, I'm pale.   
  
You wanted me to be just like you - the splitting image, and to anybody else, I already am.   
  
But you knew better. You knew I had mother's nose. You knew my hair was not as fine as yours. You knew that my hands were longer, more feminine than yours will ever be.   
  
You saw everything no one else could see. You saw the little things - the way I fidget a bit in my seat during a business dinner, the way my hand would shake after a rough Quidditch session, the way I would kind of wince whenever Mr. Nott would shake my hand, and how I was always just an inch shorter than cousin Weasley.   
  
You saw everything, and nothing at all.   
  
You saw the real me. And you were disgusted.   
  
I wanted to be that person for you. The person who, in your eyes, was good enough. I wanted to be that dignified young man you so proudly lied about to your associates. I wanted to be someone who could earn your respect. Someone better.   
  
Someone not me.   
  
And I'm sorry. For not being who you wanted. Because I can't. I've tried, more than you'll ever know. There's nothing I've wanted more than to make you proud. To not smirk or sneer, but actually smile at me. To actually be able to make you want to say, "that's my son", and not embarrass you for the umpteenth time.   
  
I'm sorry I -_ There was a loud clatter. One of the House Elves had dropped a pitcher, probably full of lemonade. Almost immediately the door of his parents' rooms swung open, and the loud bellows of his father could be heard within his vacant walls. Slowly, he began to sit up (he had instinctively thrown himself over the parchment at the first sound). He stared down at what he had written so far, all the while listening to the whimpered squeaks of the offending House Elf. It must've been Dolly, he concluded. She was new, hired just a week ago by his mother. 

  


There was a scuffle, a loud blast, a piercing screech, then silence. Silence so deafening that he felt it was worse than even the scream. Tightly, he shut his eyes. The feather on his quill tickled his chin as his hand began to shake with controlled hysterics. That brought the total up to four that week. 

  


Inaudibly, he released the deep breath he had sucked in. Now his leg was shaking. In a flurry of sudden rage, he stood, seized his wand, and aimed, directly at the parchment. He made no further movement, save for the slight quiver his hand was making from gripping his wand so tightly. The only sound to be heard was his shaky breaths. He glared at the parchment, which sat so innocently at the center of his working desk. Twisting his face in sudden agony, he turned towards his fire place, and fired. 

  


Emerald fireballs shot out of the tip of his wand, launching themselves unto his firewood, and began to burn them feverishly. Slowly, he lowered his arm, the soft crackle from the fire calming his racing heart. Suddenly he felt so tired. He turned again, back to the parchment, and sighed. Using his wand, he uttered a spell, and erased the last line written. Taking the quill back into his hand, he began to write again. _But then again, I'm content with who I am. Really. When I don't hear your voice in my ears, constantly telling me I'm not good enough, then I actually can be happy.   
  
Because I don't have to please you. You should already be happy with me. There's nothing I haven't done, that you haven't wanted me to do. I've entered your contests. I've taken your exams, your lessons. I've put myself out for you, constantly.   
  
And, in the end, if you still feel that that's not good enough for you, then fine. If I end up failing, so be it. I'll know I tried my best, even if you don't.   
  
If I really think about it, I don't want to be a business man like you. I want to play Quidditch professionally. And I don't want to marry Miss Parkinson's daughter. I want to fall in love first, if ever.   
  
And when that time comes, I will take that chance, but not because you told me I couldn't, but because I knew I could.   
  
I'm sorry you're not happy with me. I'm sorry I couldn't make you.   
  
But I can deal with it. I may not be able to do that now, but eventually, I will. And when I do, you'll be the first to know.   
  
Your son,  
Draco_ He held the finished letter in his hands, taking the time to relish the sweet release that he'd been aching for. 

  


A loud, rapping knock shook him back to reality. His father's muffled orders came soon afterward, beckoning him to get ready. They were late for a dinner engagement. Quickly, Draco removed his bed clothes and put on the outfit his mother had set out for him. While fastening his tie, he stole a glance at the parchment, which he had left on top of his desk. 

  


He walked towards it, as quietly as he could. Biting his lip, he fingered it longingly. Slowly and as discreetly as he could, he opened the drawer in his desk. It was empty, save for a few little trinkets and some quills and ink bottles. Looking behind him, he felt for the little groove at the way back of the drawer, and gripped it. The panel lifted with a slight crunch. Hidden beneath was a larger drawer, filled to it's nook and cranny with parchment, all with the same hurried handwriting as the one currently sitting on top of his desk. 

  


He took that parchment, holding it for a while, before stuffing it in with the rest of them. And without another thought, he placed the panel over the hidden compartment and shut the drawer. He stood there for a moment, just watching as the flame from his one single candle, which had, at the beginning of his letter, once stood tall and erect, slowly flicker and diminish, the candle fully melted. 

  


And then he turned, with eyes trained to look ahead, and left. * * * "Numb"  
by Linkin Park 

  


I'm tired of being what you want me to be  
Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface  
I don't know what you're expecting of me  
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes...  
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow...  
Every step that I take is another mistake to you...  
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow...  


  


I've become so numb, I can't feel you there  
I've become so tired, so much more aware  
By becoming this all I want to do  
Is be more like me and be less like you  


  


Can't you see that you're smothering me?  
Holding too tightly, afraid to lose control  
Cuz everything that you thought I would be  
Has fallen apart right in front of you...  
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow...  
Every step that I take is another mistake to you...  
Caught in the undertow, just caught in the undertow...  
And every second I braced is more than I can take!  


  


I've become so numb, I can't feel you there  
I've become so tired, so much more aware  
By becoming this all I want to do  
Is be more like me and be less like you  


  


And I know I may end up failing too  
But I know you were just like me with someone disappointed in you...  


  


I've become so numb, I can't feel you there  
I've become so tired, so much more aware  
By becoming this all I want to do  
Is be more like me and be less like you  
I've become so numb, I can't feel you there  
I'm tired of being what you want me...  
I've become so numb, I can't feel you there  
I'm tired of being what you want me...  



End file.
